Cassandra, my dear…

Life has two seasons always, the human heart two registers. Somewhere in the shadows of this green grass lie the roots of winter, cold, weary, anciently knowledgeable. And the dreary fog of winter is somewhere haunted by silver, spring-shod feet.

Man needs to be two, to demonstrate again the surpassing joy of unity.

He is neither transparency nor flame, he lives because he stands between light and shade.

Haunted by his own ‘shadow,’ he may not be one with it or parted from it until he measures it in sleep.

He may see too much and too little at once, and thus be haunted by soft light, the foreboding of night and day.

It perchance saves him from unity, which is the end.

 

You ask of the gods?

Gods are the perfection men cannot dream of. Can you blame the singlemindedness of their desire?

 

 

 


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